The bells began shortly after sunset.

Not church bells.

Cowbells.

Loud, irregular, almost furious.

SEAN: “Either somebody has lost an exceptionally enthusiastic herd of goats, or we’re in for an interesting evening.”

Eljara followed the noise into a village workshop.

There, a young woman called Lídia wore a frightening red mask and a costume covered in long fringes of red, yellow and green wool.

She jumped.

The bells exploded into sound.

Sean stepped backwards.

SEAN: “I withdraw my remarks about the goats.”

Lídia laughed and removed her mask.

Her mother, Catarina, was repairing another costume.

ELJARA: “What are these?”

CATARINA: “Winter masks. My grandmother’s family brought the custom from the northern mountains.”

They reminded Eljara of the Caretos of northeastern Portugal, particularly those of Podence: masked performers whose bright costumes and rattling bells transform the streets during Carnival.

The actual festivities belonged to the end of winter.

For now, the villagers were only preparing.

SEAN: “And what do the masks allow you to do?”

LÍDIA: “Become someone else.”

Catarina shook her head.

“They let you do things you wouldn’t normally dare. That’s not the same as permission to do anything.”

That evening, a frightened woman entered the inn.

Her name was Joana.

JOANA: “Someone came to my bakery wearing one of those masks.”

ELJARA: “What did he want?”

“He told me to stop asking questions about the missing grain.”

Outside, a cowbell rang.

Once.

Then again.

Sean and Eljara followed the sound.

A red-masked figure stood outside Joana’s bakery, striking the wooden door.

MASKED FIGURE: “CLOSE YOUR BOOKS!”

SEAN: “I believe the bakery is closed already.”

The figure turned.

Then ran.

Eljara intercepted him near the old fountain.

His loose bells tangled in his cloak, and he fell.

Beneath the mask was Rui, a young stable worker.

ELJARA: “Who sent you?”

Rui stared at the ground.

“Don Beltrán. The estate steward.”

SEAN: “And why did you obey?”

“He controls my work. And my father’s debt.”

Eljara knelt beside him.

ELJARA: “The mask hid your face, Rui. It didn’t make your decision.”

The following day, Joana’s accounts revealed discrepancies in the winter grain deliveries.

Beltrán denied everything.

An investigation began.

And the village argued over whether the masks should be banned.

CATARINA: “My grandmother remembered a festival where ordinary people could laugh at the powerful.”

LÍDIA: “But Rui wore the mask because a powerful man wanted to frighten someone weaker.”

Sean nodded.

SEAN: “Then perhaps the problem wasn’t the devil’s face.”

ELJARA: “But the respectable face hiding behind it.”

The villagers chose to keep their celebration.

They also agreed that nobody should be forced into its games, and that cruelty would not be excused as tradition.

Several nights later, Sean and Eljara prepared to leave.

The workshop was dark.

The masks hung silently upon the walls.

Then a bell rang in the alley.

A figure crossed the moonlit street.

Tall.

Masked.

Covered in brightly coloured fringes.

And vanished before either of them could speak.

SEAN: “I thought the festival wasn’t until the end of winter.”

ELJARA: “It isn’t.”

“Then who was that?”

She looked towards the shadows.

“Perhaps someone practising.”

“And perhaps?”

“Perhaps there are still stories about the masks we haven’t heard.”

Sean smiled.

SEAN: “How wonderfully reassuring.”

The bells rang once more.

Then fell silent.

A mask can hide a face. It cannot erase a choice.

And sometimes the most dangerous devil in the village is the one who never needs to wear a mask.

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